


Akalenadat

by countessofbiscuit



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: (Mand'alor I'd Like to Fuck), Alliance Politics, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fall of Empire, Gun play, Knifeplay, MILFs, Mandalorian Fetts, Mandalorian Politics (Star Wars), Rebels Compliant, Return of the Jedi, Suicidal Thoughts, The Mandalorian Darksaber (Star Wars), the mandalorian season 1 compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 17:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30126183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessofbiscuit/pseuds/countessofbiscuit
Summary: “You ever been to Chandrila’s Fashion Week? I have. Perks of the job, you could say. There’s a particular sound that coreward heels make on fine stone — a staccato of kal’ika. That’s your Mand’alor. She couldn’t stand under the boot of the Empire. But could she turn a stray head long enough to make a difference? I think she could, so I do.”— Fenn Shysa to Fenn Rau, 5 ABY
Relationships: Boba Fett/Bo-Katan Kryze, Past/Referenced CC-2224 | Cody/Bo-Katan Kryze
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Akalenadat

**Author's Note:**

> A direct sequel to [Su Cuy'gar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21380920) (which really should be read first), but tl;dr: Boba escapes the sarlacc and winds up as a half-dead bounty in Bo-Katan's bed. 
> 
> This was drafted before Mando S2 and was meant to be id-scratching speculative fic for that season.
> 
> Also a (belated) fill for Banned Together Bingo: Excessive Knife & Gun Play.

Concordian mornings were soft, especially from the compound’s north-facing windows. The sound of the ‘saber was not. It wrenched Bo-Katan from sleep like ice raking a durasteel hull. 

Someone had taken the hilt from her bedside and ignited it. 

The thief stood silhouetted against the panes, a dark mass counterbalanced by a thin length of void that hissed at the light of dawn around it. He examined the weapon from end to end and loosened his wrist, letting the blade’s interesting weight direct the motion. A few casual swings later, he warmed to its properties, thrusting and slashing with raw intent. 

A priceless holo indeed, thought Bo-Katan with a smirk — especially because Boba Fett was naked. One Fenn would pay handsomely to see it, and it wasn’t Rau. 

Fett hadn’t noticed her. His back remained turned. So she matched his brass by grabbing his helmet from his side of the bed and boldly slipping it on. The smell of him was strong — stronger even than everything she’d inhaled beneath his navel last night. Industrial, with an undertone of spruce. A scent more heavy than warm, and it blanketed Bo-Katan’s ornery thoughts with desire.

The helmet’s interface was simple. She should know, after she’d repaired the acid-eroded hard- and software herself as best she could without wiping the lot. But accessing any data would be tricky. Bo-Katan clicked on the annunciator. “I’d step away from the window, if you want to play with that,” she said, straining to catch the trail of her own voice. How would she sound with his face? “I’d hate to lose you now.” 

Fett spun around. He directed her blade at her, growling. “Take that off.”

Bo-Katan crossed her arms above her bare breasts. “Or _what_.”

“Or I’ll take it off you,” he said, stalking closer. 

Bo-Katan found his cache, probing his privacy until she was met with a retinal-scan error. “This is a nice holo of your dad,” she lied, goading him, sticking a hand down between her thighs. Fett was right on top of her now, the blade inching closer to her throat. It wasn’t a normal ‘saber, not by any measure; it didn’t have the same heat. You wouldn’t feel the sting until it kissed and seared your skin. “I met your dad, once,” she added, feeling painfully playful. _I’d been panting after your dad like a half-starved strill,_ more like. 

_“Off,”_ Fett demanded again. 

“Put that down.”

The air cracked angrily along the black between them. There would be some poetry in it, she supposed, her neck stiffened before the blade and his compounded grudge. But Bo-Katan was not afraid of him. And he was neither poet nor brute. Just a man.

A broad, scarred man, balls out and thickening from a lawn of dark, trimmed curls.

Fett cut the blade and replaced the hilt on the table. The room felt soft again — as soft as it could be around the two of them, cut and fashioned hard by life, unused to genuine intimacy and wary of it, too. “He didn’t mention you,” he said, frostily. 

Bo-Katan removed his helmet in acknowledgement. Boba obeyed commands; he might even respond favorably to requests in time, when she’d worked on his lust enough. “We both went our dar’manda ways,” she explained. “He refused to hire me. _I_ wouldn’t have hired me.” 

“To do what.” 

“To raise your brothers.” A laugh cracked from Bo-Katan. “Ha! I might have raised _you._ ” She imagined this fearsome hunter in nappies, snot-faced, retreating behind Jango while sneering at his big, bad, overgrown brothers to kriff off. The clone clans in Keldabe had some damning stories from Kamino, but it was Rau who had the holos he refused to share with anyone but Boba. Which meant the shabiir had to ask first and Rau's chief would have to wait like every other mortal.

Fett remained stone-faced and stiff as he meandered to the foot of her bed. “I didn’t need a mother.”

“I killed mine,” she offered because it was true. 

“ _Bitterborn,_ they call you.” 

“Do I taste bitter to you?”

“Spread your legs again and I’ll tell you.”

Bo-Katan grinned and let her knees fall open. “With pleasure.”

That night, many hours after Fett had hollowed her out with his tongue, Bo-Katan rode him into the mattress with the ‘saber at his thick throat. “The dead fucking _weep_ ,” she said at the sight. The planets Pre and his whole shabla clan would have moved ... “But lucky for you, I’ve always liked your face.” She kissed him deeply and forgot to be careful. 

Fett hissed. “You’re gonna leave a scar,” he mumbled into her mouth. 

“What’s one more.”

Some days later, the second Death Star exploded as beautifully as the first. And this time, Palpatine had had the generosity to be on station. Bo-Katan watched the Alliance holo again and again, and once more for those who’d never get the chance. It was wobbly, a rearcam view, but good enough to bring out the tihaar. And in her drinks, Bo-Katan loved a good airstrike. 

Already weak, the clobbered Imperial garrison in Sundari grew desperate. There was no Saxon anymore — hadn’t been for some years. Its frail leadership attracted the Imperial remnant like kreetles to a hemorrhaging corpse. Bo-Katan might not have minded. _Let them come. Let them try to stake their claim to that wart in a wasteland. Our long-range missiles work even better on dirtside destroyers._ But then a message came for her, second-hand, from the only person who might still pull Boba from her bed. 

“Shysa begs an audience, chief,” said A’den, no fool in his choice of verbs. 

“Then he can comm me himself, instead of greasing the servos with Fett-faced flattery.” 

“He’s afraid of spooking the whelp. Knows how close you keep him.”

 _Because we told him_ went unsaid. Bo-Katan didn’t bother to hide her disdain. She hoped the connection was strong enough for A’den to feel the chill. “If Shysa wants to speak to Boba, there’s nothing stopping him. Since he kindly wiped out the Imp comm station.” There’d been all sorts of interesting patter between Concordia and Keldabe lately, once you filtered through all the confabbing about meshgeroya fixtures. 

“Naw, he has something that came for you. It’s ... unusual. Deserves special delivery.” 

Bo-Katan frowned. The transmitter spike in the Imp’s transceiver was monitored. Closely. “We’ve not picked anything up.”

“Our spike is better than yours.”

“You _gave_ me that spike!”

“As a present. And we have another one for you.”

Everything was in flux. Any mote might tip the scales. Bo-Katan swallowed her outrage and told herself that burning righteousness had its blindspots, and resentment tended to recrudesce there. 

Shab, she really _was_ starting to sound like her sister. 

Making friends and keeping them: not a Kryze gift. But it helped that she and the Nulls shared a sense of humor, at least where one Fenn was concerned. “Shysa may have an audience whenever he wishes. Name the day and I’ll have everyone check their boots every hour on the hour, lest they step on him accidentally.” 

A’den guffawed, startling the strill in his lap. “As Fi is fond of saying, don’t excite him, boss.” 

They even did the courtesy of dumping their payloads on the way, approaching the moon empty-barrelled. No doubt they’d ask her to top them up, but such was the rotation, such was the hour, and such was the compound’s long-range imagery, that the lines of smoke across the pale side of their planet were almost enough to make Bo-Katan generous. Keldabe was buttering her up. And she could return the favor, by ordering the best of Concordia’s cuisine and brew brought to the hall. 

Fett had observed the preparations distantly. He'd gone about his odd, charitable business as if they weren’t happening at all, wrapped up in a reality where he wasn’t the chosen son of the northern clans' last acknowledged mand’alor. 

“Fenn Shysa is coming,” Bo-Katan told him, again. 

Fett didn’t look up from his heavily sugared ratmeal breakfast. “I’ve heard. Have fun with that.” 

She could admit some disappointment. Having him at her side might send the message home: the balance of power lay in Concordia. She had the ‘saber, the Protectors, just as many clones, and the theoretical loyalty of every clan in the system. Shysa had some renegade veterans and the promise of a seat in whatever representative pipe dream the Alliance cooked up. Boba Fett was the trump card, and he’d count for a little more if he made a showing somewhere other than her bed. What had Vau told her all those years ago? _A_ united _Mandalore — who could say that? Not your sister. Not Jaster. Not even Tarre._

The system's present truce felt like a fistful of detonite: held too tightly, regarded as too precious, it’d crumble feebly from her fingers. Bo-Katan needed somewhere to pack it in. “You made a pretty little speech to me that first night,” she reminded Fett, recalling how his mouth and its studied Mando’a tongue had silenced upon her cunt.

“And I didn’t make it to Shysa,” he said. “That’s as far as I’ll go.” 

That was the annoying thing about Shysa: he could convince a hutt to buy a bag of slime. Bo-Katan had a track record of failed pitches; but she'd learned compromise late in life, and hoped it'd be enough, as she turned heel and left him for the hangar.


End file.
